Boycotted | Page 9

his eyes on the fire.
"Ferriby is derived from two Anglo-Saxon words," proceeded Fergus,
"which you may have heard--`fire' and `boy.' Now I'll tell you about
Bubbles!"

There was something very mysterious about the manner in which
Fergus uttered these words, and we listened for what was to come
almost as breathlessly as Jim Sparrow.
"It was early in this century," he said, "that a boy came to this school
called Bubbles. No one knew where he came from. He had no parents,
and never went home for the holidays. He was about your age, Sparrow,
and just your build, and he was in the Lower Fourth."
"I'm going to be moved up this Christmas," interposed Jim hurriedly.
"Are you? So was Bubbles going to be moved up when what I'm going
to tell you happened!"
It was getting dark, and for the last, few minutes all the light in the
room had been caused by a jet of gas in the coals. That jet now went
out suddenly, leaving us in nearly total darkness.
"It was a Christmas Eve. Everybody else had gone home for the
holidays, and Bubbles was the only boy left in the school--Bubbles and
a master whose name I won't mention."
"He was the Detention Master, wasn't he?" inquired Lamb's voice.
"Ah, yes. There's no harm in telling you that. Bubbles and the
Detention Master were left all alone at Ferriby, Sparrow."
"Ye--es," said Sparrow softly, and making two syllables of the word.
"They'd had no hampers sent them, and as they sat round the fire that
evening they knew both of them there was no Christmas dinner in the
house. They had neither of them tasted food for some days, and had no
money to buy any, and if they had had, the snow was too deep to get
anywhere. They had tried making soup out of copybook covers, but it
wasn't nourishing, and the soles of their boots which they tried to eat
didn't sit well on their stomachs."
Some one choked at this point, greatly to the speaker's wrath.

"All right; some one seems to think it a laughing matter, so I'll stop."
"Oh no," cried one or two voices eagerly, "do go on. He only got a
piece of apple the wrong way."
"Was it you laughed, Jim Sparrow?" demanded Fergus.
"Oh no," replied Jim, who was holding on rather tight to the sides of his
chair.
"I don't like any one making fun of a serious thing like this," said
Fergus. "I was saying the soles of their boots didn't sit well on their
stomachs. They sat round the fire the whole evening, brooding and
ravenous, and saying nothing. For a long time they both stared into the
fire; then presently the master took his eyes off the fire and stared at
Bubbles. Bubbles used to be fat, like you, Sparrow, but the last day or
two he had got rather reduced. Still he was fairly plump; at least, so
thought the master, as he looked first at him, then at the fire, and then
thought of the empty larder downstairs."
It was too dark to see Jim Sparrow, but I could almost hear him turn
pale, so profound was the silence.
"The fire was a big one, a roaring one, and howled up the chimney as if
it was hungry too. Bubbles where he sat was close to it, in fact, his feet
almost touched the bars. The master sat a little behind Bubbles, and his
arm rested on the back of Bubbles's chair. `To-morrow,' thought the
master, `he will be thinner, and next day only skin and bone.' Then he
thought of the saying in the copy-books, `Never put off till to- morrow
what you can do to-day.' He sprang to his feet, seized Bubbles by the
head and feet--there was a shriek and a yell--and next moment the
master was alone in the room, and the chimney was on fire!"
At this last sentence the speaker, suiting the action to the word, had
risen from his seat and suddenly pounced upon the unhappy Sparrow,
who, already paralysed with terror, now fairly yelled and howled for
mercy. Fergus dropped him back gently into his chair, and resuming his
own seat, continued--

"There is very little to add. Under the ruins were found the remains of
the master grasping in each hand a large-sized drumstick. Bubbles was
never seen more. It was supposed he escaped without his legs on to the
roof, and they do say that every Christmas Eve he revisits Ferriby, and
tries to get down the chimney in search of his lost legs."
At the conclusion of this tragic story every one drew a long breath. Jim
Sparrow, it was clear, had swallowed it from beginning to end, and